


pursuit of happiness

by mitzvahmelting



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Super fluffy ending, apron kink?, no slurs, the homophobia is real but softcore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-20 21:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14901933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: Illya flirts with Napoleon, and Napoleon's reaction is... not at all what Illya expected.Written for the prompt, "Illya comes into the kitchen and sees Napoleon wearing nothing but an apron."  Then it got away from me, because it's Pride Month, so it ended up ruminating a lot on cold war homophobia, the "lavender scare," and all the gay British spies.





	pursuit of happiness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijusizefeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/gifts).



> thanks to [Shrill_fangirl_screaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrill_fangirl_screaming/pseuds/shrill_fangirl_screaming) for betaing :)

Safehouses. Two.  Rustic cabins in a forest, a couple hours east of Hamburg and past the German border. Fully stocked with shelf-stable foods, and enough wires and antennae and batteries and magnets for Illya to cobble together a working radio. He sends a coded message out on all the signals that U.N.C.L.E. operatives would think to check. Back at HQ, Gaby has probably already gotten permission to retrieve her partners.

In the meanwhile – two cabins. Illya and Napoleon have been living in each other’s pockets for the better part of a year, so they’re glad to each take a separate building, splitting the shotgun shells evenly between them and setting alarms in the perimeter of the camp to alert them if anything bigger than a roebuck comes rumbling near.

Finally, silence and privacy. Illya luxuriates in the freedom to prepare his own Soviet food without Europhile Solo sneering down at him about spices. The freedom to sleep in his own bed without Solo complaining about his snoring.

Illya doesn’t snore. Solo is a liar.

And then, there’s also the freedom to… to just be himself, without having to put on the stiff social exterior beaten into him by the KGB. The freedom to take a breath, knowing that no one will watch him take it.

There are birds in the trees. He can hear them. He could hear birds outside his window growing up, especially in spring, but that was different. There were only a few trees in that neighborhood, and what birds there were would be hunted by other boys armed with boredom and slingshots. This is different. Multiplied and symphonic.

Illya hasn’t touched himself in nearly two months. The realization enters his mind lazily. It hadn’t bothered him at the time – there had been so much work to do, and he had been living in such close quarters with Solo. Now he is finally alone. He ought to take care of that.

He takes care of that.

Afterwards, it is still morning. Rejuvenation pumps through his bloodstream. He changes into his last pair of fresh clothes and he exits the cabin, leaving the door open behind to let fresh air into the small bedroom. On the breeze, the scent of the woods, greenery, and something like soap and linen. There, on a wire outside of Solo’s cabin, some of Solo’s clothes are drying from the wash. It is good the American has thought to be productive with the morning.

Illya retrieves the radio and goes to Solo’s cabin. He will brief Solo on the previous night – no alarms, no contact from the radio. They will recheck the gun stocks and one of them will walk the perimeter to ensure none of the alarms have been tampered with.

Through the wooden door, the scent of something cooking on the stove. Based on the available ingredients, it must be some sort of stew made of canned vegetables and canned beans. It smells much better than it has any right to.

Illya enters the kitchen, and he had planned to set the radio on the small table and make a snide comment about the Cowboy’s overenthusiastic culinary pursuits, when he stops short in the doorway. All he sees is skin.

Napoleon is nude. From the nape of his neck to the heels of his feet, Illya can see all of him. His shoulders, the small of his back, his hips, the round curves of his bottom. Around his waist and neck, the thin white straps of an apron.

A pulse of blood goes to his cock, any recent satiation suddenly forgotten. Illya clears his throat, and at the sound Solo tenses.

“Peril,” says Solo to the stove, the wooden spoon held frozen in the air above the pot.

“Cowboy,” Illya responds, hoarsely.

“You didn’t knock,” Solo points out, utterly still, like a prey animal that knows it’s been caught.

“Did not think it was necessary. You are cooking.”

“I was doing laundry.”

“Did not realize you are doing _all_ of laundry.”

“You could leave,” says Solo, still not turning around to face him. “Pretend this never happened.”

Immediately, fiercely, Illya wants to stay. In the vaguest sense, he had known his spy partner had an attractive body hidden somewhere beneath thin layers of western-cut trousers and underwear. But that fact had been a tool against U.N.C.L.E.’s targets, not something that would ever be of interest to Illya.

Illya’s libido had been kept on such a tight leash for the last few months, he wouldn’t have looked twice even at a naked woman with her legs spread. Of _course_ he had never looked at Solo in that light. Solo was almost always dressed, and always male.

Not that Illya had never looked at men. Just not without… intent. Attraction towards men was complicated, and even more fleeting than his already delicate attractions towards women.

Illya was very good at being alone, and was rarely moved to try anything other than being alone.

“I don’t mind,” Illya coughs out, lying. He tears his gaze away from Solo’s body and takes a seat at the table, setting down the radio. “Nudity is no problem. In KGB we are not prudish.”

The challenge hangs unspoken between them: _are you Americans prudish?_

“If you insist,” says Solo, and he stiffly returns to stirring the stew.

As he had planned to do, Illya concentrates on reporting the facts of the previous night. “No response from U.N.C.L.E. over radio. I did not hear alarm in the night, did you?”

“No,” says Solo. “Which means we aren’t being tracked. Unless your alarms don’t work.”

“My alarms work. CIA style alarms are inefficient. We would have only made three if we used your method.”

“Three alarms that work are better than six that fail.”

“KGB alarms do not fail.”

“As far as you know,” counters Solo. “Perhaps you should go check them.”

Despite his nudity Solo’s voice sounds calm again. Illya doesn’t believe it; Solo is very good at pretending to be calm. All the time on their missions he pretends to be calm. Once he pretended to be calm even when there was a bullet in his leg.

Illya can see the scar, from here. At the swell of Solo’s right calf.

“After lunch,” says Illya, hoarsely, “we will check alarms.”

“I thought we were eating separately,” says Solo. “You wanted to go back to cooking prison food.”

“Is not prison food,” says Illya. “Is traditional food, and would have tasted better with chicken. Where did you find chicken?” There is an empty can of chicken on the counter by the stove; that would account for how good Solo’s cooking had smelled.

“It was in the pantry.”

“There was no chicken in my cabin. You should share.”

“I’ve already cooked it.”

“Then we share lunch,” Illya concludes. Solo tenses, and glares over his shoulder at Illya, who shrugs placidly, saying, “It’s only fair.”

Solo’s gaze returns firmly to the stove.

His calves, and his thighs, and his firm round rump are all still bare to Illya’s visual appraisal. Somewhere between his legs, Illya can just see the shadowed outline of his balls. Perhaps tighter than usual. Entirely accidentally, Illya wonders what those balls would feel like cupped in his hand, warm and soft and vulnerable, making Solo squirm.

Solo is already squirming, though, just with Illya looking at him. He is clearly trying to play it cool, trying to act unbothered. But as much control as Solo has over his demeanor, he can’t seem to control his circulatory system. His neck and shoulders are turning pink. Illya wants to lick there.

Illya wants a lot of things, and it’s very stupid. His body is so stupid, tongue lolling after the first pretty thing to come across his path now that the mission is over. He ought to have more control over himself. He ought to do like he was taught by his handlers when he became a spy – he ought to be an agent, not a person. He ought to bury his personal and sexual desires so deep within himself that they disappear into the dirt.

And yet. His time with Gaby, and his time with Napoleon… they don’t want him to be not-a-person.

Illya is becoming… very much a person. When he is not on a mission, at least.

The mission is over and Illya _wants,_ like a man finally reaching the edge of a desert.

Besides looking over his shoulder, Solo has not moved since Illya entered. His bare feet have remained planted on the wooden floor. This surprises Illya, because Solo is wearing an apron. If he turned around to face Illya he would be able to shield his pretty bottom from Illya’s gaze.

Either Solo is trying to prove that he isn’t _prudish,_ or…

Or. Or he has something to hide at his front.

“Did you mean for me to come in here and see you like this?” Illya asks, finally.

The question makes Solo stiffen again, hesitate with the soup. “No. Apparently, I miscalculated my level of privacy,” Solo replies, truthfully.

“But now that I am here…” Illya muses, eyeing the way his partner’s weight shifts from one leg to the other, “…do you like it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cowboy…” says Illya, coaxingly, “you are blushing.”

Over the sound of the steam, and the bubbling of the stew, there is the unmistakable sound of the safety of a pistol being clicked off. Illya’s whole body goes cold. What is this? Why is there a gun and why is Solo wielding it? Is this a betrayal? Illya’s first thought is _I must disarm the attacker._

But Solo does not attack. He holds the gun out to the side, the muzzle pointed towards the wall so Illya can see it. In a hurried voice, Solo says, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Peril. I don’t know if this is a betrayal, or how you could have predicted this opportunity. I’m telling you now that you don’t have me. You have nothing on me. If you try to betray me here, or to U.N.C.L.E., as some sort of homosexual, then I will splatter your brains on the wall and escape to Mexico. Do you understand me?”

His voice is so calm. The same voice he’d used with the bullet buried in his leg. Forced composure. Like the voice of a television newscaster. Illya’s throat goes tight, and, suddenly, he understands.

It comes back to him. Tales from fellow KGB agents. After all, there are so many MI6 agents who have sex with men.

Handsome KGB agent goes to seduce the enemy agent. The two men return to bedroom and get undressed. Second KGB agent jumps out of closet with camera. Then, “ _Allo, allo. Chto tut proiskhodit?_ Hello, hello, what’s going on here?” The flashbulb.

Then, KGB threatens to release pictures if British agent doesn’t cooperate.

It would be big scandal. Homosexual intercourse is criminal act in UK. Public finds it very disgusting.

British agent cooperates.

So would American agent.

Illya takes a deep breath. The spoon is trembling in Solo’s left hand, but his right is steady with the gun.

“Cowboy,” Illya says softly.

“Don’t call me that.”

Illya swallows, and something burns in his throat. “Napoleon,” he says instead, the name feeling strange on his tongue. “I am sorry that you still think I could betray you.”

Then, Solo rears on him with a snarl. “I didn’t,” he spits out, “but you suddenly come here and – try to make it seem like I’m some sort of…” Solo is furious, and hurt. The fabric of the apron is tented slightly around his softening erection. So, this is what he had been hiding from Illya. Hoping that Illya would leave and not draw any conclusions. Incriminating conclusions.

Illya should have _thought_ about what his partner would make of this. He should have thought with his head and not with his cock.

What had he hoped for? A mutual understanding? That Solo would trust him enough to know that Illya’s advances were entirely genuine and motivated not by politics but by lust?

And _oh_ , he lusts. Solo’s bare chest, a mat of dark, masculine hair. The straps of the apron framed by pert, pink nipples.

“Napoleon,” Illya says, carefully. “You are a very beautiful man, with very beautiful body…”

“Stop it—” Solo chokes out. His composure is… breaking. His face is red. Tears in his eyes that make Illya’s heart ache. He points the gun at Illya directly.

Illya holds up his empty hands, trying to placate his partner. “I find you attractive…” he tries to explain.

Solo grits his teeth and holds the pistol with both hands, trying helplessly to steady his wavering grip. “How did you know?” he demands. “I seduced women. I slept with _women_. I never went _near_ any homos. I never made any advances towards you.”

“Cowboy, please listen…”

“ _Sanders_ didn’t know. He hated me and he had his hunch but… I slept with _women_. They put it in my _file.”_

Solo looks away. Lost in memories of the terrible CIA handler, perhaps. The moment his eyes stray, Illya pounces. He grabs Solo’s arm and points the gun at the wall – a shot goes off in the scuffle. The sound of flapping wings outside, birds fleeing the loud noise. There is a bullet hole in the pantry door, but, thank goodness, no blood. Illya wrestles Solo, pins him against the kitchen counter just to the left of the stove. Solo is… not well. Not himself. He is shaking. Illya forces the gun from his grip and lets it clatter to the floor. Solo’s breathing is harsh, irregular. His wrists strain against Illya’s grip.

Illya whispers to him, fervently, “I am not betraying you, Cowboy. I am telling the truth.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Solo snarls, trying to throw Illya off, “we’ve worked together for two years and you never looked at me twice.”

“KGB training. Don’t feel sexual attractions during missions.”

“Not that it stopped you with Gaby.”

The memory of Gaby’s face, gentle smile, soft body. _You’re trembling,_ he’d said. _Because I’m scared,_ she’d replied, gritting her teeth. High stress mission. She had never done something like that before and his chest had felt so tight.

Illya shakes his head, shuts his eyes and presses his face against Solo’s trembling shoulder. “She was vulnerable,” he explains softly, “I want to protect her. Was romantic, not sexual. Training is very thorough.”

Solo scoffs. “And they don’t train the homosexual out of you, while they’re at it?”

“Not successfully,” retorts Illya.

Something in Solo freezes at that. Illya pulls away, opens his eyes to look at Solo, whose jaw is so tense, whose eyes are shut so tight.

Illya squeezes Napoleon’s wrists meaningfully. “Not successfully,” he repeats, gently, and he lets go of Solo’s wrists. He kicks the pistol away from them, somewhere under the table, and then he backs away from Solo, keeping his palms open to show he means no harm.

Solo’s breath hitches, like he’s stifling a sob. He grips the edge of the countertop. The stew is still bubbling. A seam of the apron was torn, one side of Solo’s chest is entirely bare, and Illya can see it rise and fall with his irregular, labored breathing. Finally, he gets out, “You… you can’t be serious.”

“I am sorry,” Illya murmurs. “I did not mean to make you upset.”

“You were…” Solo bows his head, covering his face with his hands. “You were… flirting?”

Flirting. Illya lets out a chuckle, at himself, at his lust-clouded judgement. “Poorly, it seems.”

“Oh God,” says Solo.

Some part of Illya is waiting for Solo to indicate that he returns Illya’s interests, but Solo is saying nothing, only massaging his temples as if to alleviate a headache. Illya feels detached from it; he isn’t offended or disappointed. Solo is clearly too off-balance to properly respond, and even if he later reveals he feels no attraction towards Illya, it is no big problem. Illya only wants to make his partner feel better again. He should never have approached Solo so bluntly.

Solo is a sensitive man, and this is a sensitive topic.

“Sit,” Illya says, “you sit. I will serve lunch.” He pulls out a chair for Solo, and carefully touches him on the shoulder to lead him to the table.

Solo doesn’t resist – he sits heavily in the chair, and leans his head over his knees. “I’ve lost my appetite,” he admits, muffled by his hands.

“That is okay,” Illya says. He turns off the stove and carefully takes the pot off the heat. “I will let it cool and then put in refrigerator.” He isn’t sure that the refrigerator in this cabin is even working, but that can wait.

When Illya next looks at him, Solo is focused on the door to the pantry, the bullet hole. “I’m sorry,” Solo breathes, “I almost killed you.”

Illya shrugs. “Not the first time.” He remembers, of course, their first meeting in East Berlin, the pistol with the silencer, two shots through the glass of Illya’s window in those midnight streets. Or when Illya nearly returned the favor in the aftermath of the Vinciguerra affair. _Kill the American, if you have to._

Solo can’t tear his eyes away from the pantry, though. Illya seats himself in the other chair, watching, and Solo’s gaze doesn’t waver. Finally he says, “I haven’t—” but his voice breaks off. Illya says nothing, and Solo continues after a moment, “After the war, we spent a lot of time in Paris and Amsterdam. Liberating, and… feeling liberated. That was the last time I… because then the CIA caught up with us. The higher-ups were the ones who gave me the ultimatum, but Sanders didn’t like me, so he delayed the paperwork to keep me in jail for another month.”

Solo’s fingers knot in his hair, as he continues, “Homosexuals are a security threat. You lose your clearance. And if I lose my clearance, they’ll put me back in jail.”

Illya considers this. He would feel the same way about the gulag, but American jails are nothing like the gulag. Then again, American men are nothing like Russians. Solo’s skin is so soft. He would die in the gulag, but he would still suffer in American jail.

Illya purses his lips, then says, “You keep many secrets from CIA. What is one more?”

Solo shakes his head. “Not successfully,” he admits. “They know I steal, but it doesn’t threaten them. This would threaten them.”

“Because homosexual is easy target for blackmail?”

Solo shrugs, and averts his eyes.

Illya hums, and hides his clenched fists under the table. “Is very silly. Just as easy to seduce straight man.”

Solo frowns. “Not as easy. Homosexuals hide from the law; they’re less picky about partners by necessity. There is a lot of anonymous sex. Easy enough to sneak a covert op into the right restroom.”

“But you have been…” Illya searches for the word, “celibate. Where is the security risk?”

“It’s no difference to them. Sanders has been looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”

“But you are with U.N.C.L.E. now.”

Solo scoffs, bitterly. “I’m sure U.N.C.L.E. wouldn’t appreciate the security risk either. It’s all the same if they send me back to Sanders.”

“But you don’t need stranger in restroom,” Illya tries to reason. “You could have me.”

A beat passes. Blush blooms across Solo’s cheeks, even as he still won’t look at Illya. Then his forehead presses against the table and he hides his head with his arms. Exposing the hair of his underarms, and the curve of his pectoral, which makes Illya’s mouth water.

“If you would want me,” Illya amends, carefully.

Muffled somewhere beneath his arms, Solo chokes out, “I can’t – I can’t think, Peril.”

Illya tries to run through the possibilities, tries to imagine what they could do to ease Solo’s fears. “Cowboy,” he murmurs, “I could take off my clothes and be on bed. And then you can sweep room. As long as it takes until you are satisfied, you can sweep room for bugs and I will not move. I will wait for you until you are ready.”

Solo’s fingers knot in his own hair, as he tries to regain his composure with his face hidden against the table. “Illya…” he groans.

With slight hesitation, Illya reaches over to gently stroke Solo’s hair, to soften the tug of Solo’s fingers. “It is a safehouse,” Illya tells him, “you are safe.”

Solo takes a shuddering breath. He doesn’t lift his head. “Could you…” he mumbles, “… give me some time to myself?”

Illya glances down at the pistol, still on the floor, weighing whether or not he trusts Solo alone with a gun right now. But if he took the gun away from him, Solo would feel he had no way to defend himself, and that would make everything worse. “Will you… be okay, alone?” Illya asks, finally, hoping that Solo will understand his hesitance.

“I’ll be fine,” says Solo quietly, and he sounds earnest even though he won’t look up. “I just need to gather my thoughts.”

“Okay,” Illya concedes, finally. “I will check the alarms.”

He forces himself to leave, even though it hurts his heart to do so.  One step in front of the other, and then he lingers in the doorway to look back at his partner, who hasn’t moved, still buried against the table with barely any clothing on. A beautiful man.

He shuts the door behind him.

The fresh air feels even cleaner than before. Somewhere deep inside, Illya wants to live in these woods forever. No government in his bedroom. Everything can be beautiful and natural.

He’d never really had access to the beautiful and the natural, except for KGB missions into Siberia, where the natural environment had been so hostile, with its ice and snow and bears and… other creatures whose reflective eyes followed you in the night, waiting to pounce and sink their teeth into your flesh. These woods are different. There may be wolves or bears, somewhere, perhaps. But those predators _know_ Illya’s place in the woods, he already has _claim_ to the land with those big cabin structures. Those animals will give wide berth.

The only real threat, here, is other human beings. Illya can handle this.

The alarms are fine. He walks the perimeter of the camp, trudging through the underbrush to the well-concealed little boxes. He temporarily disarms the flares, and then practices tripping the sensor, and each one works, so he rearms them and sets them down.

He wonders how long until U.N.C.L.E. comes to retrieve them from their Dutch hideaway. And then what? Back to a world where Napoleon must hide himself from their handlers and from the law? Where he must stifle his real desires?

And what of Illya? He can manage to bury his sexual attractions as usual. But everything else… he wants to protect Solo. Like with Gaby. They are both… so important to him. He can’t pretend that they are only partners. He can’t pretend anymore.

What if they transfer Solo to a different mission, where Illya cannot protect him?

He returns directly to Solo’s cabin. There are clothes missing from the wire outside. He finds Solo in the kitchen once more, dressed in still-damp trousers and shirt like a shield to protect himself. He is putting the pot of stew into the refrigerator, which he must have had the forethought to plug in last night, because it does indeed give off a breath of cold air when the door opens.

“Peril,” says Solo, in greeting.

The apron was tossed haphazardly on the back of the chair, its strap curled against the floor. Illya wonders whether Solo had been angry. There was so much… so much in the world to cause his anger.

“Your clothes are wet,” says Illya.

“It may surprise you that I am starkly aware of that fact.” He shuts the refrigerator door, and turns to the sink to wash the spoon. Yes, anger. Or bitterness. Solo is hurting and Illya wants nothing more than to stop the hurt. The damp fabric clings to Solo’s skin as tightly as no fabric at all, and Illya just wants to touch him.

Illya shifts his weight, uncomfortably, as he remembers the feeling of total unravelling as he’d stared at Solo’s backside. “You don’t… need to cover yourself,” he says. “You have nothing to hide.”

“Illya,” Solo warns. What precisely he is threatening is unclear.

It should not be a surprise to Solo, of all people, that he is a very attractive man. He uses his beauty to his advantage all the time. Why should it bother him that Illya says this out loud? It is only the truth, the truth that Illya wants to say over and over again, _you are so beautiful._

Solo drops the spoon in the sink and turns to face Illya, crossing his arms in front of himself. “There was a call on the radio while you were out,” he says, gesturing to the box of wires Illya had left on the table. “We have 24 hours. Gaby’s team is en route.”

That’s it, then. 24 hours before the two of them are back in the controlling embrace of their government. Illya studies Solo’s tense form, remembering the way his voice had sounded so hollow, remembering the dream of freedom in these woods. “My offer still stands,” Illya whispers.

_I will wait for you until you are ready._

Solo’s eyes flash, and he turns away again. “No,” he says firmly.

“Cowboy, don’t do this,” Illya begs. “Don’t make me watch you do this. You’re killing yourself.”

Forced composure, the television newscaster’s voice dipped in acidic irony, “Actually, Peril, I’m doing what it takes to keep myself alive.”

“Just one night,” Illya offers, helplessly.

At that, Solo snaps. “And then what?!” he demands, crossed arms clutched around his stomach like self-comfort. “It’ll only hurt more if I know what I’m missing.”

What he’s missing. Illya hadn’t been missing his attractions. Even on missions, he didn’t long for what he could not have. He was good at erasing those desires entirely. But here... Solo is right. If Illya had Napoleon for just one night, just _one night,_ he would go mad. He might be able to bury his wants on the missions, but every moment of freedom Illya would _long_ for him.

Even now, he is longing for Solo.

“Then, _not_ just one night,” Illya suggests. “Many nights. All of the nights.” Every night, holding that man, _kissing_ that body, _whispering_ to Solo every terrible truth about the world, _you deserve to be loved, dorogoy, darling…_

“They would find out.”

Would they? Illya scoffs. “You think Sanders is better spy than me?”

Solo looks away. “The risk isn’t worth the—”

“You think Waverly is better spy than me?”

Solo chokes out a startled laugh. “Waverly is demonstrably a better spy than both of us, Peril.”

“Only because he got drop on us. We will show him better.” Illya steps forward, hesitantly. The space in this kitchen is very limited, but Solo could still step back, could indicate that he does not want Illya near, but he only stands there, frozen. “Besides,” Illya continues, “I am certain Waverly has similar secrets.”

He has a hunch, at least, that the affable British man is one of those many, many MI6 homosexuals.

Solo’s features turn skeptical. “And what about his feelings for Gaby?”

Illya rolls his eyes. “Affection for Gaby is inadmissible evidence. Everyone loves Gaby.”

“A homosexual wouldn’t.”

Illya laughs. “Is that how you think this works, Cowboy? What about you? Everyone loves you, beautiful man, but that doesn’t make everyone homosexual.”

Illya remembers the way men’s eyes would linger on Solo’s ass, on missions. There were times when just sending Solo to walk from one end of a room to the other would do enough to distract _everyone_ in attendance that Gaby and Illya could sneak out the back door.

But Solo is angry again. “I’m the only one, then, is that right? I’m the only – queer?” He hesitates on the word.

 _Oh_ , thinks Illya. Oh. “Me too,” he tries to say. “Super homosexual.”

“I’ve seen you with women.”

“As I’ve seen you.”

Suddenly, Solo shoves him away, full contact so Illya goes stumbling backwards. “Don’t lie to me, Kuryakin,” he says, and it’s menacing. “I know you. You could turn around from this and pretend, pretend to be a straight man. You’d find someone. It’d be safe.”

“Solo…” Illya tries to say. Tries to explain that it’s too late. That he wants Napoleon like a dying man wants water.

“What about your mother?” Solo challenges, and Illya’s body tenses like a reflex. He tries to shut his eyes and take a breath while Solo says, “what will they do to her when they realize you’re a—”

“She’s already dead.”

He wonders if Solo is right. If Oleg had known Illya liked men, would he have punished Illya like that? It’s… doubtful. So many other things for Oleg to punish Illya about, the sexuality seems too low on the list.

Then he thinks _, if mother had been… more respectable comrade… would I be like this?_

_Do I simply come from family of disappointments?_

_Does it matter in the end?_

“Oh,” Solo breathes, apologetic, his posture stiff, his eyes wide. “Was it the—?”

“No,” Illya says, “They like to keep pawns alive.” They had held a rifle to Mother’s head when they took Father to gulag. He shifts his weight, his fingers are trembling, but it isn’t… it isn’t. Not when he needs to… stay… for Solo…

“I’m so sorry,” Solo says, quietly.

Illya takes a deep breath. “It was many months ago. Probably from drink. It is in my file. You could have seen.”

Solo looks away. “I haven’t… looked at your file. Not since we… it seemed too invasive.”

“We are spies, cowboy.”

“You know what I mean.”

Illya does know. And he watches his partner’s eyes brim with emotion, and he understands.  He sighs, and pulls a chair from the table to sit. To think.

Waverly had broken the news. There had been many trinkets suspiciously absent from Waverly’s desk that morning. Sharp objects. He’d been ready for Illya to have an episode. But there had been no episode. “It is terrible thing to say,” Illya murmurs, half to himself. “But it has been… easier to breathe. Knowing that she is…”

Solo nods, empathetically, his own expression clouded with other, private memories. “Because she’s safe. They can’t hurt her anymore,” he fills in. He mirrors Illya, sitting at the table in those still-damp clothes. Getting the chair wet.

“I am not afraid of them,” Illya says. “There is nothing more they can take from me. It is… freedom, in a way.” And he reaches across the table, and ever so carefully, he places his palm over Solo’s fist. And he asks, “What can they still take from you?”

Solo’s gaze turns dark. “They can… put me back in jail.” The fear is something palpable, rolling off of Solo’s shoulders in waves. Illya recognizes it deep within Napoleon – the fear of being restrained. The way he fought in the bathroom in West Berlin. The way he railed against Sanders. The many… the many panic episodes, in the pseudo-privacy of thrice-bugged hotel rooms, in the aftermath of Rudi’s torture. Gaby and Illya pleading with him, _it’s okay, you’re okay_ , when obviously he was not okay at all.

Illya reaches out with his other hand as well, caressing Solo’s fist with both thumbs, soft touch, _“Dorogoy,_ you are already prisoner.”

 

That’s all it takes.

Half a second later, Illya’s lap is full of Napoleon Solo.

His lips against Illya’s lips. His body against Illya’s body. That hitched breath of too much arousal and too many clothes.

Illya wonders if Solo’s passion stems from the emotional connection between them, or if he has just been so desperate for another man’s touch. Between kisses, Illya whispers, “You have been… lonely?”

“Shut up,” Solo bites out, and kisses Illya before more words can be said. His mouth is… unyielding, demanding. The fingers of one hand knotting in Illya’s shirt – not gently, but like the fabric will rip.

Breathless. “Napoleon,” Illya tries to say, to slow him, _“Napoleon.”_

“I said _shut up.”_ Solo ducks his head against Illya’s throat to kiss and bite.

Mm. There is a certain... unease, digging under Illya’s skin.

“I want to suck you,” Solo whispers, urgently, “I want your—”

“Wait,” says Illya, seriously, and he pushes him away.

“Do you want me or not?!” Solo shouts, half-frenzied, glaring, resentful, flushed and aroused. A beat, then he seems to gather himself. “I’m… sorry,” he says, and he tries to catch his breath, push his hair out of his face. Get his thoughts together.

“I don’t want to fuck you,” Illya says.

A self-effacing wince, and a bitter glare at the floor, “See, Peril, this is something you should have mentioned an hour ago…”

But Illya takes Solo’s face in his hands, to force him to meet eyes. And Illya can see the rush, the panic, the overeager desperation in Solo’s eyes, the self-hatred, the… decade or so of repression. Illya says, “I would like to make love with you.”

Surprise, and then Solo lets out a sharp breath. His wince turns into a grimace, for a fraction of a second, and then his jaw goes tight. His chin is trembling, but he’s holding it all back, his eyes are proud pinpoints glaring meaningfully at the wall above Illya’s head.

Illya’s thumb runs down Solo’s face. “Is… okay?”

An aborted laugh, and tears spill down Solo’s cheeks. “Yes, I, um. I need a moment, to… I’m sorry.” Solo covers his face with a hand, and the smile turns hopelessly miserable for a moment, “I’m so sorry, it’s not going to be good sex, Peril, I might be a touch overemotional. Though I suppose that’s your fault.”

Illya smiles, and presses a kiss against Solo’s chin. “I take full responsibility.”

“Do you?” Solo says in the forced television voice, “well, that’s good news, because I think I’m going to cry on you now, and I rather hope you won’t think less of me for it.”

“Never,” Illya swears, and pulls his lover close.

Until this point, every moment spent near Solo or thinking of Solo or watching Solo suffer has been a _knife_ carving pieces out of Illya’s chest. Now, though, the reverse. His partner sobbing against Illya’s shirt collar… it feels like pieces of Illya are stitching back together. He whispers endearments in the silence of the kitchen, only loud enough to be heard over the hum of the refrigerator and the intermittent gasps from Solo.

“ _Okay,”_ murmurs Illya, “okay,” massaging tension from the nape of his neck, listening to every tiny whine. Illya muses about the length of a year. In Solo’s file there are pictures from the war; he was _so young_ , and Illya wonders, in all seriousness, just how long Solo had been able to live truthfully before the jail and the CIA took it away from him.

Illya had never done sex with men, but he had always permitted himself the freedom to masturbate to whatever thoughts struck him. He wonders if Napoleon had allowed himself the same freedoms, or if he spent the past decade so caught up in the lie that he wouldn’t even…

“ _Please,_ ” mumbles Solo, somewhat deliriously, “please don’t betray me after this. Please don’t… you know I don’t give a damn about the world. I’m – I’m yours, I don’t have any allegiances, just please don’t. Just don’t.”

“No betrayal,” Illya promises in a whisper. “Never.”

“Okay,” a shaky laugh, the burying of his body into Illya’s as if to disappear, “okay. Pretend I n… never said that.”

“Terrible spy,” Illya prods lightly like an admonishment, but he holds Solo closer. “Are you ready for dry clothes?”

A shallow breath, then, “I’m ready for a drink.”

“That is… also an option.”

Shakily, Solo lifts himself from Illya. He looks down blearily at Illya for a moment, face splotchy with tears, and then he shambles somewhere into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a bottle of liquor that he must have stolen from the boudoir during his “visit” with the Belgian diplomat’s wife.

Solo retrieves a slightly dusty glass from the cabinet, and when Illya reaches around him to get a second, Solo whines almost playfully, “It’s a scotch; you wouldn’t like it.”

“Not for me,” says Illya, washing it out and then filling the cup from the tap. “Water; you’ll be dehydrated.”

“Funny,” says Solo, after a sip of his scotch, “the Red Peril wants to baby me, now.”

“Very much so,” Illya affirms, and pushes the glass into Solo’s free hand.

For some time, Solo stands there at the sink, silently. He sips from each glass intermittently under Illya’s watchful eye. Illya doesn’t fill the silence, either. He watches as Solo’s smile from their banter slips back into a wistful frown. There is a small window above the sink, and through it, Solo is watching the trees.

Eventually Solo murmurs, “Should take the laundry in. It’s going to rain.”

The sky is indeed overcast.

“And then…?” asks Illya, carefully.

Solo tips back the scotch in a rush. “It’s not going to be good sex,” he says again, absently. “It’s been awhile.”

Illya snorts. “Cowboy, sex is your _profession.”_

“Sex with _women_.” He side-eyes Illya, and pours more scotch. “I am trying to anticipate what it will feel like, to be in bed, and look up, and it’s _you,_ Peril. I’m afraid I might laugh.”

Laugh? Illya makes a sour face. “What is so funny?”

Solo flushes, his gaze fluttering anywhere but Illya’s face. “Well, there is the fact that I’m about to knowingly jump in bed with a KGB agent, which is absurd.” He’s giggling, or stifling giggles, a bit hysterical. “Mostly, though, it’s the thought of _you,_ Kuryakin. You’re just… you’ve always seemed to disapprove of any… dalliances.”

“Only when we have other responsibilities.” Illya crosses his arms and leans against the refrigerator. Solo’s eyes are sparkling with mirth, and he tries to hide his smile behind the rim of his glass. Illya says, then, in a conspiratorial voice, “At this moment, I believe my only responsibility is to you, Napoleon.”

“See,” says Solo, his breath hitching, “I have to laugh, now, because if I don’t then I’ll sob, and neither of these are conducive to good sex.” He swallows, and sets the glass down.  “Is this…” he whispers, “it won’t scare you off that I can’t pull myself together?”

“Scare off?” Illya brays, “what do you think I am, a baby bunny?”

Solo covers his face, grinning, “You’re scaring me, Peril, you never laugh—”

Illya pulls the glass away from Solo to throw it into the sink, and then he grabs Solo by the shoulders, telling him, _telling_ him, “You wear so many _masks_ , Solo, there is no greater delight than seeing you like this.”

More laughing, hidden behind his fingers, and Solo chokes out, “ _Fuck!”_ over the breathless giggles.

So Illya kisses him, then, on the small part of his cheek not covered by his fingers. Solo’s skin feels so hot with blush under Illya’s lips, and Illya does it again, maneuvering around Solo’s hands to get kisses all over his face, and it’s _exhilarating_ and sweet and Illya is going to… just _burst_ from this passion inside of his chest.

Tap… tap… and it’s raining. “Oh, shit,” Solo curses over his laughter, pushing Illya away, “We need to—”

Illya is grinning as Solo tugs him outside, muttering, “Why did you do laundry today, you silly man, you stupid American, can’t even predict weather…”

“Get a – get the _basket_ , Illya- _ha_ , what are you doing—"

“Cowboy doesn’t even need clothes, we will put you on helicopter wearing only your silly apron—”

“You owe me a new one—and a new _wardrobe,_ oh no, _Illya—”_

They do, in the end, manage to get into bed together.

When they collect the wet clothes, Illya steals the basket and carries it to _his_ cabin instead. Solo follows, and when the door shuts, Illya crowds his lover against the wall, and with too-much-laughter they undress each other.

Solo’s body beautiful like art framed by Illya’s bedsheets.

And seeing him smile is…  Solo tucks his face against Illya’s chest because he’s laughing too hard… laughing when Illya takes off his underwear, apologizing and laughing, “It’s just you’re _you_ , which is… truly delightful, Peril, really. And I have, wow, no complaints about…” and then Solo’s mouth is sucking against the skin of Illya’s chest, ravenous down his abdomen, Solo’s deft fingers wrapping around Illya’s cock.

It is… hungry lovemaking. Like sitting down at a feast.

And Illya keeps thinking to himself, _slow down, you will have so much time to love this body, slow down, there is no need to get so worked up,_ but he just can’t imagine slowing down. He wants everything. He wants Solo to feel everything.

And perhaps Illya will have the chance to follow through with that.

Really, he could never go back to the way things were, and he wouldn’t want to.

It’s about… liberation. From the oppression of KGB training. From the society that would call this lovemaking shameful. Liberation, like the sweet taste of Napoleon Solo on his tongue.

Illya will hold fast to this freedom forever.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was heavily inspired by my stumbling across this article from June 1997: [ "So what's new about gay spies?" ](https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/so-whats-new-about-gay-spies-1253692.html)
> 
> Comments appreciated :D


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